Goodness and Riddance
by CardboardCreative
Summary: A slight exploration of father and daughter. One night, Frex decides that the world would be better off if he cut baby Elphaba's throat. Bookverse.
1. Chapter 1

Note: **Ah. Here I am. In the middle of exam season, procrastinating and writing a story. I'm such a success, aren't I? Anyways, I just wanted to explore the relationship between Frex and Elphaba, bookverse, for a moment. After all, I find he was much more accommodating to her than portrayed in the musical. Anyway. **

Disclaimer: **Though this may greatly surprise you, I don't own Wicked. Nuh uh. Way unexpected, eh? **

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Green had always been Frex's favourite colour. When he was a boy, just a young Munchkin in the land of gargantuan proportion, he wouldn't have anything any other way. He loved the scenery of farmland: the fields of billowing, tall grasses in their emerald hue, the deep sea green of the tree leaves and pine needles at the forest edge. 

His cloaks always required a hint, if not a bold statement, of olive. His mother always complained that her son clashed terribly, but he insisted that everything must be green.

He dreamt of someday travelling to the Emerald City, what with its grand images of the colour Frex had been so engrossed in. The Emerald City became his heart's desire: an entire city shrouded in the magnificence and dignity the colour portrayed. He heard of the colossal palaces, the majestic structures, the endless gardens and the traditional lime dyed clothing still worn of specific days.

Frex had been mesmerized by the stories of the city; as travellers passed commonly among the area he resided. It was custom for people to come and go in the modest abode his father afforded; they were never unfamiliar in Munchkinland, and, of course, needed a place to stay.

The multitude of handsome Gillikin businessmen, strangely charming Vinkus traders, and odd Quadling backpackers who tried to give gifts in thanks for their inclusion in the residence had soon been more interesting than uncomfortable to Frex. He developed a knack for weeding out every single tale – the truth and the less-than-truth - of the marvellous city.

But his aspirations to become a minister overpowered his foolish boyhood fantasies as he grew into adulthood, and he soon abandoned those thoughts. His old obsession was suppressed, or muffled, though he did love to incorporate such a rich colour in his attire or belongings. And as life progressed, he had become a hard worker in his field, preaching as intensely and sincerely as his disposition would allow him.

And then he'd met Melena. A vision. A beauty. A goddess of her own accord: not only beautiful, but possessing a certain wit, and cunning that captured his heart. A knot would form in his chest whenever the lady would come around – if you could call her a lady at all. She was an unruly, young thing, and very intent on being won over by Frex.

Every trait of the woman was new to him, as though she were a magician, or a sorceress. She would pull surprise out of surprise from her magic hat, leaving Frex falling to his feet. He'd quickly established that he _needed_ the woman as his wife, no matter how untame she was. She didn't disagree, proclaiming that her intentions all along were, indeed, to become his.

_Just like that? It was that easy?_ Frex remembered thinking, as he'd readied himself for a battle of some sort, though he didn't know of what nature. He'd expected other suitors, or at least a disagreement from his darling Melena.

Instead, she had slipped her delicate, bony fingers into his hands, a smile playing on the edge of her lips, insisting with all her soul that marriage was what she'd wanted. She had been so full of youth and ignorance, that although Frex wanted badly to wed her, he felt it was established all too quickly.

And obstacle to pass through, much to Frex's relief, was Melena's father, the Eminent Thropp. A hard-nosed, world-weary man, he was already aging upon Frex's arrival into his life. His hair was graying and upon his face were imprinted frown lines.

"I don't expect you to be able to humble my daughter," he stated since the beginning, "even I have failed to subdue her wily spirit."

"With all due respect, sir, you needn't worry. Though it sounds idealistic, our love is capable of overcoming the darkest of hours."

"Oh?" The Eminent Thropp replied, and smirk on his face. It was a look that would be genetic, that Melena was more than capable of imitating, "What dark hours do you speak of? You have known one another for a considerable time, yes, but I neither see nor hear of any squabbles or battles overcome."

"With all due respect, sir-"

"There is nothing to worry about, dear boy. I love my daughter very much, despite her raging disobedience. Whatever will bring her happiness, I will support, even if it is marrying _you_, and so you have my blessing. What I mean to tell you is that she is somewhat of an unfinished song: running amok, purposeless, as it were. Her ridiculousness will never be drained from her… so caution yourself."

The Eminent Thropp laid a large, steady hand on Frex's shoulder, his wedding band shining gold in the sunlight. Encrusted upon the outline was the meek twinkling of many tiny emerald jewels.

- - -

To say he was flustered at the notion of a baby was an understatement. Frex rarely found himself in the company of infants, and therefore knew not the obligatory leadership he was to claim. His father had been easy going, but strict with corporal punishment, and Frex couldn't decipher, or thought to know how he would become a good father.  
He'd held and blessed babies as a minister, but nothing more. When he'd told Melena of his fears, she laughed at him, as usual. She reassured him that he would know what to do – and they would, of course, hire assistance.

Frex was absent for the majority of the past year, and he and Melena would share their time in almost any hour they were together, though he had his doubts. Mathematics was never an aptitude, but the time added up from when Melena was said to be due.

There was, however, a great many causes that required tending, leaving very little time for him to contemplate, nor care for, the baby's paternity. Many modern unionists were altering the faith greatly, and many Ozians, in general, were skeptical of the faith altogether. He figured he would have to trust his spectacle of a wife until the storm blew over.

The Time Dragon Clock made this task especially difficult, brewing danger for both Frex and Melena the day the baby was expected. Frex sometimes still felt the way his heart had thumped against his chest, threatening to break through the skin and run away. In a panic, he sought out his labouring wife with grave results.

When he laid eyes upon the baby, a multitude of images flew past his eyes. It made him so dizzy, and he could barely comprehend where he was, or what was happening.

He saw the green of the grasses back at his comfortable abode in the Munchkin farmlands. He saw the billowing of his very first cloak; the way it shone in that special tint that excited him so. There were the pine needles that stuck to his clothes when he'd rolled down hills or trudge along the forest. He remembered the way the notion Emerald city would dance in his head as a tall, blonde Gillikin man told him stories by the fire.

He saw his wife dancing at their wedding; the way he'd thought his love for her was like a sorceress's spell. The way it (and she) was like magic. He began to feel drunk on the memories and visualizations, hearing his mother complain about grass stains. He heard his child self answer that if the stains were green, they were welcome to him. He recalled the sting of the wooden spoon on his backside.

He saw the Time Dragon Clock's hands as they moved from a minute to, to midnight. He saw the mob following swift on his feet; and, for a moment, an out of body experience…

_He was running from the mob, but it was not him. It was not him, and it was not his fear. Frex reasoned that if he had just died at birth, all this trouble wouldn't exist. The chest heaved as he held the skirts of his frock up to aid him in his quest for freedom. His frock? He was wearing a frock…_

And then his eyes focused back on the baby.

Frex owned not another article of green again.

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**I decided the entire story was too long for one chapter, and that anyone reading would become very frustrated or bored. "Cree," you would say to me, utterly flustered, "must you insist upon sucking with your chapter distribution?"  
"No," I would answer, "Because this conversation does not exist, via my splitting of this story into two chapters. And the fact that I'm also having an imaginary conversation with a reader who is nonexistent plays a role."  
The next one is a long one, just so you're warned.**


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer:** Phh... don't mock my saddened state due to my non-owning-ness.  
**Note: **Part two. It's a dousy. But I wrote it, and you came here, so I hope it makes your day a tad brighter! Or darker... whatever... I HOPE YOU ENJOY IT!**

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And there Frex was, his temples wet with perspiration as he stared at the child that stared back expectantly. He never wanted to touch the child; not because he was afraid of her, but because it would simply make her existence final. 

Her tiny form was the most extravagant shade Frex had ever seen: a sort of smooth, fascinating jade. Jade was the only word he would ever use to describe his daughter's complexion inside of his head, because something as dull as 'green' just didn't do justice.

She scarcely cried, to the point they thought she was ill, but when she did, her cheeks would become a lush, darker tint that reminded Frex of better days. When she cried herself into hiccoughs, as babies did, she would flush this creamy peacock that mesmerized Frex so much he wanted to slap himself out of it.

She would hold out her chubby little arms for him to embrace her, and yet he did not approach. She would stare at him as long as he resided in the same room, and she would gurgle and shout baby talk after him when he couldn't bare her presence.

He knew it wasn't Elphaba's fault for being the way she was: but whom could he blame? The outcome of her very life was nothing but heartache and frustration. Her colour and her unusual set of teeth disturbed him greatly. Frex would pray to the Unnamed God night after night to send him an answer, a solution… anything.

Melena was growing accustom to the child, he guessed, as she would occasionally cradle Elphaba, and feed her- after much pushing from Nanny, of course. Every time his wife did hold their daughter, she was wary of the razor sharp teeth, but other than that, there wasn't much to fear. Despite her peculiar aversion to water, and her primal teeth, Elphaba proved to be somewhat of a low maintenance child.

She was jaden, yes. But she barley cried, practically never soiled herself, never had tantrums or suffered nightmares, could preoccupy herself alone for long periods of time (though Nanny wouldn't have it), never appeared hungry or dissatisfied. In fact, she would possess a very smug look, much like her grandfather's smirk, when anyone appeared uncomfortable around her.

Frex suspected she would turn out a very grumpy child: a sort of incarnation of The Eminent Thropp; with furrowed brows and snippy demeanour. He knew it would be caused from a lack of care or love, but no matter how he wanted to proceed, he found himself somewhat impotent with nerves. He couldn't hold her, no matter how much she stared at him, or Nanny scolded him.

And here he was, in the middle of the night, face to face with the fear that shrouded him since the day of her birth. Already, she had traces of the prominent adult features on her face: hawk-like nose, sharp jaw line, large dark eyes. She watched him as he paced, mopping his brow, and studied her. Her expression never changed, and it was unreadable. Her simple nightclothes were buttoned tightly at her neckline to keep her from a chill.

"What to do," he mumbled to himself, still not understanding what roused him from slumber, "what to do."

He stopped to look at Elphaba, who looked back with mild interest, just as she had before.

"I don't know what to do, Elphaba!" He told her. "What do you want me to do?"

There was no reply. _Of course there's no reply, you fool,_ Frex told himself.

Dimples appeared on her cheeks as she mashed her lips together, grinding her teeth to the pattern of Frex's pacing feet. She continued to watch as Frex drove himself frantic.

"I mean, there couldn't possibly be a logical explanation, could there?" he asked half to his daughter, half to rhetorically, "It couldn't be my fault, could it? After all, I've been a good, honest man.

"Could it be Melena? Was it not she who said a devil would enter the world the day she went into labour? Was there a reason the Time Dragon Clock wanted us dead? Oh, the questions…"

He wandered around the plain room. It housed nothing but Elphaba, her crib, and her infant essentials. He looked up at her.

"Hardly any answers."

Elphaba's black eyes watched Frex's every movement, a rather unnerving feature that caused Frex to sweat in the first place. He let his mind wander to the reason he'd awoken.

He was dreaming of a tower in some far off land. _It was tall, made of sturdy, __discoloured__ stone. Its height was gargantuan, and if it weren't ancient, it would have been mighty. There were windows - indicating that it was never constructed for battle – with panes incorporating metal bars. Though the windows could open, it was encased - suffocating. _

_Inside the tower were the remains of someone's sleeping quarters. There was a table and chair, and a four-poster bed, but the bed has been stripped, and the cold stone floor was lonely._

_A queer sight misplaced in the scene was scorch marks blemishing the stone. They were black, circular and jagged, provoking a fair bit of interest of Frex's part. All of a sudden, he'd been in the tower room, standing above the marks. He kneeled on instinct, stretching his fingers to brush the blackened stones. _

_He heard an inhuman cry escape from the tower, reverberating off the walls to pain Frex's ears. High pitched and full of anguish, it made Frex's toes curl and his hair to stand on end. It dragged on until it didn't, and left Frex in shambles_.

And then the minister woke in his bed, Melena fast asleep beside him, unmoving.

Elphaba was standing in her crib, chubby fingers holding tightly to the bars around her. Unmanageable tufts of jet-black hair adorned her head, in a most disorganized manner. She continued to look at Frex, her jaw set instead of grinding now, locking eyes with him.

If she wasn't green and had fairly dangerous fangs, she would have been quite the charming infant. The white of her teeth, when they were bore, stood out in shocking contrast to the jade of her outside. He noticed how very much she resembled her mother: thoughts he would never have again until she went off to Shiz with Nessarose as a young adult.

That sharp jaw, that was very much like Melena. The nose was more of her grandfather's trait, but even in the way she would watch him without much of a cause, as though she was only watching because there was nothing else to do: that was Melena. The black eyes would eventually soften to something more human as she aged, and possess an intense glare her mother did when enraged.

_But what would she be like as an adult?_ Frex thought. _Would those hideous teeth grow out? How would this lack of love be handled and expressed? I have not the foggiest how she would fare in the rest of society: she's never been in public_.

"Would you stay as monstrous as you are now?" He asked, receiving a low growl in response. Though Elphaba's face never changed, she was obviously offended, "Would you be shunned by society, or appraised as a miracle?"

He let the pleasant idea settle in his head for a moment, but it dissipated as soon as it was created. It would never be.

"I shouldn't disillusion myself," he said earnestly, "what would the misters of Oz think? Obviously, you are something unnatural, and Unionists are firm believers in what's natural. I am. And you cannot be natural."

Elphaba fumbled with the bars on the crib.

"I don't mean to be so crude, darling, but it is truth. I want you to know truth; if you are to be my daughter. I want you to know the world is harsh. As we speak, the Unnamed God is being shamed by the pleasure faith. The tomfoolery and basic sin of their reckless action besmirch the name of all we stand for.

"How can I help save the Ozians' beliefs if I can't do anything for myself? For you?"

He approached his daughter slowly. She didn't seem tired in the least, despite the outrageous time of night. The sky outside the windows was ebony as the eyes of the green girl, not a soul enabled to see clearly. The stars were all masked by the plague of trees and their voluminous branches.

"What do you want me to do, Elphaba?" Frex repeated, feeling weak. He felt immasculine in the face of his daughter, though she was the very proof of his manhood. She looked at him as though there was nothing special to see: as though he were a dying Animal - no – _animal_, rotting of disease. It wasn't pity, nor contempt, but it was something.

She remained as she always was- the same look since he stepped foot in her room. It made Frex feel worthless.

"Do something, _dammit_!" The outburst seemed far away to Frex, as though in another room.

Elphaba hadn't even flinched, though Frex had damaged his resolve considerably. She watched as her father slowly went mad with thoughts.

"Are you even mine, Elphaba Thropp?"

Nothing.

"You're going to make an outstanding Eminent Thropp one day, you know that?" He said with a slight smile. "You have the nerves of a statue. Let's hope you'll be a strong speaker."

Elphaba seemed surprised, but it was only conveyed in the way she swayed her small body back and forth. She kept staring at Frex, kept gazing at him as though she was expecting him to do something great. He couldn't do anything great.

"Sweet Oz, Elphaba, what do you want from me?"

_Why did you come here?_ She seemed to ask.

"Good question."

His forehead was sweating again, and he ran his hand over his bald scalp. Some days he thought his eyebrows were greying, but it was always in his head. He imagined himself turning into his father-in-law: frown lines, a slump of the shoulders when no one was watching, a smile only when it was absolutely necessary. Frex was never able to tell if the man was _happy_.

"Will you prosper at all?" He asked the girl, "You want my truth, Elphaba? I don't think you will. You remind me of the murderers in the stories travellers used to tell me. They were always crazed and freakish, some kind of external manifestation representing their warped minds. Don't look at me like that…"

Elphaba's brows furrowed at him.

"Knowing the ministers, they'll want you killed," Frex sighed to himself, "knowing the intelligence of the Munchkins, they'll want you killed, too. They don't take well to what they don't understand, you know. Oh, Elphaba, I can't even bring myself to touch you!"

He backed away from the crib and began to pace the room once more, contemplating the consequences of his actions.

"How would you be better off? If you make others feel the way you make me, there will not be much for you in this world. In the next, maybe…"

Elphaba banged on the crib bars to get her father's attention. If she wasn't abnormal enough, she had to have developed a mind as sharp as her chin. She opened her arms to him.

"No." Frex said immediately, not wanting to go near her now. The infant waved her arms, insisting she be held.

"No." Frex said again, more strength in his voice.

After a moment, Elphaba gave up, and sat on down on her backside. Frex watched, fascinated, at the way her skin would gleam from the candle light in the room. The darkness shrouded most of the room, but Elphaba's colouring was unmistakable.

There was a shining coming from a corner that caught Elphaba's eye. She clapped and giggled in a disturbing manner, wiggling around and pointing to it. Frex broke out of his thoughts and automatically picked up the object making the annoying glimmer.

A letter opener.

It wasn't very sharp, but it wasn't too dull to cut flesh. In fact, the point of it unmistakably resembled Elphaba's fangs. Nanny cut her fingers multiple times from caring for the girl on those teeth, evoking little pinpointed scars on her fingertips and hands. Nothing could compare to the damage she'd caused the midwife the day of her birth, biting off a finger and all, but at that moment, Frex got an awful idea.

It sickened him, it made him want to flee from the room as fast as his feet would allow, but he stood still for a moment. Elphaba seemed to catch onto his thoughts, and continued to giggle, reaching out to the letter opener. Frex struggled with his thoughts: wouldn't it be better to vanquish her from the world, in order for the rest of us to live life?

It seemed too selfish.

But thinking to the girl: anything visibly out of the ordinary in society was considered an abomination – to the Unionists, anyway. And he, himself was a Unionist.

He had a duty.

If she was capable of injuring others so, was it not his responsibility as her father to rid the world of the threat?

Frex approached the crib once more.

The main reason why he became a minister was to ensure justice. Everyone loved the picture of a hero: the one with all the guts. The hero was the one that always knew what to do, always selflessly sacrificing themselves and their wants for others, always so courageous.

But Frex was not a hero, he was far from courageous. He was a human man; a scared, fleeting, angry man. No human man could possibly display unfaltering courage in the face of what they didn't understand. He was no more an enforcer of justice as a bringer of injustice. But his Unionist convictions told him that this would be an act of good.

So he took a few more hesitant steps, steady feet betraying his heart.

He remembered the words of his wife, _"How can we possibly have peace with her around, Frex? Look at her- she's green! Green like grass. Green like vomit. Green like… like rotting."_

He took slow steps, eyes locking with the black pupils of his companion. There was pleading there somewhere, but for what, Frex couldn't decipher. Yes or no?

He stopped to rest his hands, one with the letter opener on the bars on the crib. He would have to work to draw blood from the marvellous jade skin.

And how exactly would that come to pass? Frex imagined several outcomes in his mind. There would be an oozing, green sauce under the baby's skin, _no _- it would be something acidic, or poisonous to crops, _no_ – there would simply be nothing at all (She would be either, A: virtually unkillable. After all, weren't demons immortal? Or, B: She would just drop like a sack of potatoes, gutted and dry like torn burlap.)

Frex tried to prepare himself for what murder would feel like. Would he feel satisfaction as he rid the world of this glorious abomination? Would there be a sinking feeling, or a lump in his throat- like a mischievous child regretting an irreversible act? In this game of dread, that was all he was anyhow.

He ventured back to Melena's voice, and what she said to him the other day,

"_Oh, Frex! This is some kind of dilemma we're in. She's nothing but trouble – but just look at how beautiful she is."_

He stopped, back stiffened to the point of aching. He saw in his mind the way Melena would relax when bathing their daughter in milk. Though she had to be forced into it after about ten minutes of Nanny's merciless guilt trips, Melena would relax and begin to hum calm, silly tunes to Elphaba.

She would admire the green flesh as she poured handfuls of milk onto the baby's shoulders and back. She would look at Elphaba _lovingly_.

Melena loved Elphaba.

Frex shook his head, and let the letter opener drop into the crib, little Elphaba quick to retrieve and study it.

And then, he reasoned, Elphaba really was a green little Melena. They both had that defiance, that need to strike out and rebel against their expectations. Their bond – _mother and daughter_ – would defy some odd hardships if the girl was to live. Their understanding of one another could only grow as they became older, more insolent, more insubordinate. It was only his wife's nature, and, since Elphaba arrived in the manner she had, she would only get worse.

Instead of going to cut Elphaba's throat, Frex gathered his courage, and outstretched his arms, placing his hands between her arms and underarms. He lifted his daughter out of the crib, and reluctantly cradled her to his chest.

She seemed shell-shocked, and somewhat uncomfortable at this uncommon affection, but in time melted into him. Frex, himself, felt this territory to be quite unfamiliar, but waited for something to happen.

Elphaba laid her head onto his shoulder, dark hair falling to one side. Frex pried the letter opener out of her hands, finding her skin unusually soft and inviting. Like an infant should be, she was warm, smelling welcome, like the firewood burnt earlier that evening. She didn't fall asleep, but Frex felt himself come close.

Needles to say, he felt content with the child in his arms, as though another endeavour was triumphed over. He rocked Elphaba gently, hoping she would fall into slumber, but she remained awake, leaning on him, tubby arms around his neck.

He realized she was drooling on his nightclothes, probably from the sheer rare pleasure of being held. Frex thought of Saint Aelphaba, the beautiful woman spending an eternity behind the waterfall. _Would that be my Elphaba?_

"Indeed, you are too prominent to turn out anything but great," he murmured, and set her down at last, "in any context."

Elphaba watched once again, with that same damn expression, and Frex gathered the letter opener and the candle, retreating from the room.

"Goodnight, _Fabala_." Frex said, letting the words slip from his tongue on impulse. He liked the way the nickname sounded, and smiled at the green baby.

Shutting the door behind him and slowly making his way back to his sleeping quarters, he thought,

_That's it. You've sealed the deal._

Slipping soundlessly back into bed, Frex laid down to dream of cats, ethnic scarves, and blue diamonds.

* * *

**I don't have the book for reference, and I basically didn't want to get everything right. I don't know how much I have altered from the original story, if at all, but I'll take some pride in it.  
Do you know what else goes good with green? Purple!  
So review. Like... right now.**


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